Skyfort
by SolemnSerpent
Summary: Skyrim/TF2 crossover. Told from the perspective of Spy, Sniper, Scout, Pyro, and maybe other characters. These are Skyrim-versions of the TF2 characters, and therefore not entirely the same. Does not follow the main story line of Skyrim entirely. M for gore, violence, and language.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: SKYRIM/TF2 CROSSOVER GO!**

**~x~**

**Spy**

The sunlight was painful as he opened his eyes. The sack that had been placed over his head was gone, but there were still ropes around his wrists and ankles. He grimaced; it meant he was still a prisoner of the Imperial bastards who had foiled his attempts to escape. The Thalmor finally had caught up to him. When he had been hiding in Morrowind, the Thalmor had taken root in Skyrim. Damn! He should have known they would have taken precautions incase he fled to Skyrim! The imperials had been looking for someone of his complexion, and age, and by the gods they had found him. Five years of hiding, disguises, and theft and the Thalmor had finally caught him. Of course, being right next to that stupid horse thief hadn't helped things along, either when the Imperials had come investigating the people crossing the border.

Keeping his head still, he could spot the thief out of the corner of his eyes, looking downcast. There the man was, his face smeared with dirt and perhaps something fouler. He reeked of horseshit and stale mead. The fool had tried to steal a horse right under the patrol's nose, and after they had captured a band of he had heard them call 'Stormcloaks'- rebel Nords, from what he could tell. But to Marcel, Dark Elf, Spy, thief, and traitor, this fact meaning nothing in face of his impeding doom. Everything his parents worked for had gone to waste with his capture. Everything! No doubt everything would be tortured out of him; the Thalmor were well known for their methods of obtaining information.

Marcel looked about him; he was not the only prisoner present on the wagon. Some were there that he had never seen before, who had probably been on the wagon before his capture. There was a Nord sitting across from him, a great bulking brute of a man with dirty blonde locks and blue eyes typical of the inhabitants of Skyrim. And sitting next to him was an Altmer, a High Elf, with short, almost curly brown hair and a face that was strangely shaped for one of the elven races. His eyes were also of the brightest blue, another unusual feature. On the brim of his nose was a pair of spectacles, strange but not unexpected. The man was dressed as a Priest of Arkay, but his robes were slightly shabby and torn. Instead of ropes, he was bound in chains. His wrists were chafed from the rubbing of the chains, but not yet calloused; the elf had been chained for a couple of days, maybe a week, but no longer.

The elf's expression, however, was a bit worrying- the Altmer looked serene, peaceful, seemingly enjoying the frigid air and the biting wood of the wagon bed, but Marcel could tell differently. He had been trained to read the emotions behind expressions, and the priest's shoulders were tense. His hands were wrapped around the shackles, as if he was holding them in place. From what Marcel could tell though, the man was readying himself to run. _Is he going to try and make a break for it?_

"Ah, good, you're awake. Sleep well?" The Nord from across him spoke, his voice rather upbeat for one who appeared to be on his way for execution. Marcel stayed silent; he did not want to talk to the lumbering oaf of a human right now. Now when his life had been so messed up, and he was being carted off to die. "You look different without that mask on, you know. I can see why you wear it, now. It hides all the scars and markings. You got a violent past?" The Nord continued. Marcel grimaced at that. His balaclava; easily concealed under a hood or using his cheap, novice-level illusion tricks had been taken from him upon his capture. There was an absence of its familiar weight and security. It had been his way of covering up the burns, scars and brands on his face, marks from a recent and bloody past. It was like a child's blanket: mostly useless, but comforting. And now it was gone, stowed away in one of the sacks scattered on the floor of the wagon, no doubt.

"Zhat is none of your business," Marcel spat at the Nord, irritated. He did not need this man to make assumptions about his face, and make inquiries about matters he did not understand!

"No, but we're all brothers and sisters in bonds now, like I mentioned to our horse thief over there. I tried to talk to yer elf companion here, but according to the guards he's barking mad."

The elf didn't look 'barking mad' as so quaintly put by the Nord. No, he just looked edgy, but anyone would on a prison cart headed for the gallows or the chopping block. Marcel concentrated on the Altmer's hands. The man didn't tug at his chains like one trying to escape, no, he kept his hands tightly clasped, fingers hiding most of the chains, and they were neatly folded in his lap. With his robe's long sleeves, the Altmer could have easily hidden the chains. Glancing down, Marcel noted that the man's feet were not bound. _Not that he can run, not wearing robes like those. I'm surprised, frankly, that priests can even __**walk.**_

That reminded him. Yes, escape was definitely in his mind; Marcel didn't know where they were going; only he would not like the end of the journey. When he looked down at his hands, bound in front of him. What he saw made him groan. _No doubt about it now, the Thalmor definitely know it's me. Who else would do this to a 'mere' thief?_

His wrists were bound, right at the joint, but so were each of his fingers, secured together at the joints with sturdy, flexible leather and tied off with metal buckles. It prevented him from moving his fingers, let along his hands, and effectively kept him from freeing himself through normal means. And Marcel didn't know any magic _useful_ for escaping the hand bindings. His ankles weren't bound as securely; the rope was merely hobbling his legs so that he could take tiny steps, but jumping and running were out of the question. He grimaced. _There's no safe way out of this if I can even undo the bindings on my hands or feet… This is looking bad. The Thalmor know their business when it comes to capturing a talented spy… of course, this would be easy to escape from if I wielded any kind of destruction magic… but no, I could never learn that. Stealing the spell books would have attracted undue attention, especially since in Morrowind the priests and mages there are basically eyes and ears of the Thalmor… Nocturnal's curses upon the lot of them!_

Minutes later, although to Marcel it could've been hours for all he cared, a fat drop of rain hit the Dark Elf on his forehead. Having no hood, since the guards had thought to strip him while he had been unconscious and dress him in nothing but prisoner's rags, Marcel knew he was going to be miserable. _No hood, no balaclava, no proper clothes to stave off the cold and wet. Oh, merde. I hope they don't find my thieving tools hidden in the waistband of my sash… I paid good money for those potions, poisons, tumblers and picks. The guards would probably break them, likely as not._

_Maybe they'll drink the poisons, heh, they'd deserve it…_

Rain started to fall. Thick, cold, wet drops splashed Marcel's face, soaking every inch of him within seconds. The Imperial driving the wagon chuckled, and drew up his hood. "Skyrim's famous for her harsh weather, spy. Enjoy it, at least, while you can," he chortled, slapping the reins of the horses to get them moving faster. Marcel kept his face carefully neutral. Showing emotion would lead to more jibes and insults. To his surprise, however, the Altmer next to him burst out in maniacal laughter, doubling over, his chains clinking. "Ooh! Zhat vas very funny, Herr," he snickered, revealing glinting white teeth as he did so. However, his expression, though forced into lines of mirth, was still tense, and his eyes flicked over to Marcel. Almost imperceptibly, the Altmer gave a tiny nod in his direction, and his eyes moved from his chains to Marcel's bindings, to Marcel himself, to the guard driving the wagon, and then to the woods of Skyrim around them. Marcel understood the message, but he couldn't help but be a little put-off. Did the "insane" elf really have a plan to escape, or was he just playing with Marcel? However, now was not the chance to doubt anyone, not if it would help him get away from these Imperials and his enemies. Marcel gave a hidden nod right back at the elf, who straightened up, his expression placid, seemingly unaware of his previous actions.

"Shut up back there, elf!" The guard called, but the Altmer would not take it standing down. The elf was truly mad, or one of the best actors Marcel had ever seen. He adopted a doleful expression. "But I vas not speaking, herr soldier! Indeed, you vould not haf heard me ovah zee sounds of zee birds und sunshine!" he grinned, and his eyes glittered with insanity from under his raised hood. _At least he __**has**__ a hood…_

"Just ignore him, Rolf! He's crazy as a loon that one is. Killed his father, mother, and her unborn child all in one go! Poisoned them, and then claims his brothers did it when everyone in town knew he was the one who meddled around in that alchemy lab of his all day. Went completely nutters in prison!" The guard walking alongside the wagons called, his voice clearly sounding over the patter of rain.

The Altmer didn't seem fazed by this information, no, instead he continued in an almost sing-song tone, "Oh yes, I send my mozzer and father to sleep in zhe peaceful lands, my baby sister too. But," here he appeared crestfallen, "I still need to send my brothers as vell. But my vials of sleeping medicine vas taken away vhen zhe nice men decided I vould go to a holy place, they said." The Altmer said, and the guard driving the wagon chuckled cruelly.

"Yep, you're going to a hole-y place, alright." He sneered, and then checked the reins of the horses to increase the pace. The weather was taking a bit of a turn for the worse, as the rain was now pounding on everyone and the wagon itself. Even the guards, who had thick, strong clothes, seemed uncomfortable and eager to get out of the rain.

"Vill they give me my medicines back, at zhis… hole-y place?" The Altmer asked, his face portraying eagerness.

"Oh, they'll give you medicines alright…" The guard replied, now looking a bit uncomfortable. Marcel couldn't blame the man, but the guard had brought it on himself. Plus, the Altmer kept casting half-glances at Marcel, a sinister grin alighting his features all the while, making the Dark Elf suspect something more was going on here than an insane elf's ravings. However, the elf leaned towards him, a pleading note in his voice.

"You vill help me find my _medicine,_ von't you? In return, I'll help _cut your bindings_ to zhis vorld and set you _free,_ mein freund!" The elf said, and Marcel knew it was all a ruse then, especially when the 'mad' elf _winked_ at him.

_I knew it! He IS faking it!_

But now the Altmer was up in Marcel's face, and he didn't know what to do. Should he reply? The elf was looking at him, waiting for a response.

"Ehm…. _Oui?_" He replied, and that seemed to satisfy the Altmer greatly.

"I'd hug you, mein freund, but as you can see, zhese chains prevent me from doing such…" The elf gave a sly smile, rattling the chains on his wrists. Marcel's eyes widened at the motion. _Are the chains on his wrists…?_

But Marcel's thought was interrupted by the shout of approval from all the guards escorting the prisoner wagon. There was a town ahead! It was the town Marcel had been hoping to bypass, Helgen. He had heard it was occupied by the Imperials, and with them, the Thalmor. His heart sank; the place looked more like a fortress than any town. There were archers stationed at the walls, sheaves of arrows neatly stacked and sorted, ready to be used. There were pitch cauldrons as well, and Marcel could spot the traditional Thalmor mage robes among the boiled leather and iron armor of the Imperial Soldiers. He winced; knowing at least one of them would recognize him. Today was not turning out to be a good one, in fact, it was almost as bad as the day Marcel had lost his parents and received his many scars… _No, that day was my worst day. But today comes a close second._

Nevertheless, he was glad when the wagon went under the archway, providing a temporary respite from the frigid rain, which was coming down in buckets. Dressed only in prisoner rags, which provided no relief from the weather or any sort of warmth, and limbs numb from the bindings, Marcel felt a bit better when he was out of the lashing rain. However, he was soon back out in the torrent, and then the wagons stopped. Was this the end of the line? There were other wagons gathered here, along with many different prisoners of all races.

"Vhat iz zhis? Zhis ees not zhe holy land!" The Altmer spoke now, voicing Marcel's fears. One of the guards hurriedly shushed him, speaking quickly and quietly.

"Shut your gob, priest! This is just a pit stop for you and your darkie friend over there." He hissed, and the elf had the good sense to just shut up and sit still while the Thalmor Agents approached. Every prisoner was huddled in his or her respective wagons, apprehensive, watching the agents approach. Everyone knew what would happen. Those who were left in the wagons would still get to live another day or two. Those who were taken out would die. Marcel held his breath as a Thalmor agent approached his wagon, and he stared at the floor of the wagon, hoping to hide the scars on his face that gave him away. It obviously failed, because Marcel felt the wagon shake as the agent stepped up onto the bed of the wagon and placed a hand on Marcel's chin, forcing his head up.

Marcel found himself staring up into the amber eyes of another Altmer, a High Elf, though this one was very, very different from the mad one seated right next to him. No, this elf had the typical pointed chin and yellowish features befitting one from Summerset Isle. His hair, dull silver, was tightly braided behind his head in the same style Marcel had used years ago. Upon examining Marcel's face, the elf's face curled into a spiteful sneer.

"Well, look at this. The infamous Spy, traitor of the Aldmeri Dominion and the Thalmor! Where are your tricks and disguises now?" The elf said, his tone spiteful and mocking. Marcel looked away from his triumphant amber eyes, focusing instead on the background behind the elf. The rest of the Thalmor mages were picking prisoners and taking them off the wagons, lining them up, flanked by Imperial soldiers.

"I'm curious to see just how ugly you look without the balaclava on. Mind if I see?" the Thalmor in front of Marcel hissed, and a gloved hand seized his curls and wrenched his head up, allowing for the scars on the Dark Elf's face to be shown in a better light. Biting his tongue to keep from crying out, Marcel stared up at the elf with nothing but hatred in his expression as every scar and burn mark on his face was examined. Deep slashes from the torture instruments, brands from hot-irons, and various burn scars littered the Spy's face, marking a violent and bloody past. A past Marcel had worked very hard to cover up and to hide from the rest of the world. But now, it seemed, the past was catching up to him.

Finally, after minutes of examination, Marcel's hair was released and he slumped back down grateful, his scalp aching from the tug of the elf's fingers. Smirking, the Thalmor mage turned and stepped down from the wagon bed, motioning for the two other prisoners to step down. The thief disembarked with nary a protest, but then again he hadn't said anything all journey. The noisy Nord, however, grumbled, "the damn Empire loves their lists," before stepping down from the wagon as well.

"The priest is to be sent to Whiterun, where he will be 'cured' of insanity before being sold into slavery. The Dark Elf is to go to Solitude. The Ambassador to Skyrim wants to interrogate him _personally._" The Thalmor mage instructed the driver, who sneered unpleasantly before heading towards one of the stone towers. Marcel shivered, from both the rain and the fear of what the Lady Ambassador was going to do to him once they reached Solitude. The man returned with what looked to be a wagon cover, something that would shield the bed of the wagon for the elements. _At least I'll be sheltered the entire way to Solitude._ The thought was grim, but then again, Marcel's predicament was dire.

"Out of the wagon now! Move!" The guard shouted, and Marcel stood up, though his leg muscles were numb and protested the movement very much so. At the edge of the wagon bed, however, he paused, considering how he was going to get down from the height of at least a foot with bound feet, but the Thalmor mage solved the problem with one hearty push. Marcel went face-first into the filth on the ground, splattering his clothes with mud and dirt and who knew what else. For a moment he remained like that, winded, but then he started to struggle to his feet. A kick from the mage sent him back down to the mud puddle he was lying in, and a blow to the side made sure he didn't move. Marcel heard the telltale '_hissss'_ of a spell being cast, and the glow of a faint green light. What as the mage doing? Marcel figured out the answer a few seconds later when his joints locked into place, and refused to move, despite his many attempts to lift his face from the muddy ground. _Paralysis. Great. First mage who has a grudge and he has to be an expert at Alteration. This day keeps getting better and better._

"The spell should hold him like this for a few days, to make sure he won't try to escape. Knowing the 'Spy', he'll always have a few tricks up his sleeve," The mage warned the driver. All Marcel could see however, was mud, pressing into his face, soaking into his clothes. The humiliation of being unable to move made him want to cry, but Marcel was made of sterner stuff than that. _I will pay him for this. I will force him to eat his own heart when I find him again-_

"Hurry up and lift him into the wagon, I haven't got all day!" The mage barked, and Marcel felt hands grasp the back of his clothes and yank him upwards roughly. He remained in the same position he had been paralyzed in, though his eyes flicked from the hands placing him into the wagon on the bench across from the mad priest to the faces of the soldier and then finally to the sneering mage in the background. Even paralyzed, Marcel tried to convey one message: _You will pay for this._ The mage, however, simply sneered again and walked away to rejoin his fellows, while the Imperial soldiers loaded supplies into the wagon. It would be more than a day's journey to reach Solitude from where they were. Plenty of time for an escape attempt, but even Marcel faced the fact that he would be defeated by the fact the only part of his body he could move through conscious will was his eyes. He stared at the cover of the wagon above the two prisoners for a while, and then switched to the mad priest. The damned elf was winking at him again! _What does he have in store for me? Does he have a plan, or is this just the game of a lunatic?_

It might have been a few hours or maybe a few minutes, Marcel couldn't tell the difference. He was still frozen in the same position, thanks to the Thalmor mage, and so he was uncomfortably positioned on the bench in the wagon, forced to either stare at the stitched canvas of the wagon cover or at the Altmer priest, who either was still feigning madness or was truly insane. The Altmer in question was humming a simple, painfully cheerful ditty rather loudly, his arms folded in his lap contentedly, his chains jingling. All of Marcel's muscles felt like they were on fire, his hands and feet were still bound, and he was going to be in this wagon for a very, very long time.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF OBLIVION IS **THAT?**"

If Marcel had been able to jump in fright, he would have. Instead, he just gave a muffled grunt through frozen lips, his eyes flicking frantically to the Altmer. The priest had stopped feigning insanity, instead staring wide-eyed at something above the wagon.

"Iz zhat… a dragon?" The priest whispered, quiet enough so that only Marcel heard him. He also heard the guard curse loudly.

"Shor's Bones! It came from Helgen!"

_There's… a dragon?! They can't be serious, right? My father told me stories about dragons when I was little… but they were just stories, right?_

The guard driving the wagon had apparently been thinking along the same train of thought as Marcel, because he muttered, "Is that really a dragon? They're supposed to be only stories! I have to skip the priest's stop, I must make haste to Solitude without delay!" With that, he chucked the reins on the horse lightly. The wagon started to speed up, bucking roughly on the bumpy stone road. Marcel felt miserable as every bounce made his limbs smack painfully into the wooden walls and surfaces of the wagon. As the wagon hit a rut in the road, several things happened in quick succession.

First, one of the boxes on the floor sprang open, revealing darts, vials, and other mixtures of herbs and assorted objects. The next thing Marcel saw was the flash of the amber and gold robes as the 'mad' Altmer stood up, cackling madly, and lunged for the darts, chains swinging from his wrists. Marcel's eyes widened as he saw links for the chains, having been filed away by some sort of metal file, probably for hours, fell to the ground as the priest snatched up the darts and dashed towards the driver's seat of the wagon.

"ZHE EARLY BIRD GETS ZHE KILL FIRST, DUMMKOPF! DIDN'T ZHEY TEACH YOU ZHAT IN BATTLESCHOOL! But no, you sloppy milk-drinking son of a vhore, you decided to take pity on a mad priest. Mad? Ha! Mad with sorrow! Mad vith being denied revenge and being forced to flee! I'LL TEACH YOU MADNESS!" The priest screeched, and Marcel heard something sharp piercing flesh. For a moment, there were only the stutters of the guard. And then the man started to scream.

"Zhere vill be no relief for you, bastard. Zhat vas poison zhat took me months to perfect. Now you, mein comrade, vill know zhe meaning of madness. Hafe fun!"

The last sentence was snarling in that falsetto cheery voice the elf had used earlier when he had been 'mad'. Marcel did not doubt the man was slightly on the insane side of things, but he was frozen, unable to talk, escape, or do anything besides strain his eyes towards the source of the noises. The guard was suffering now, switching from raving in a guttural language Marcel didn't understand to screaming loudly, a mere wordless scream of agony and suffering. Whatever the priest had given him, that poison was making the guard suffer like Marcel had never seen before.

A body flopped down on the bench across from him, where the mad priest had been sitting minutes before. It was the guard! His eyes were rolled up into his head, and as Marcel watched, terrified, he saw that a bloody froth of spittle was pouring from the man's lips. The man twitched, the screaming over, replaced by whimpers and small moans of agony.

"Ah, Herr Spy, iz it not? Zhat iz the title the guards called you by. Ah, yes, I hafe somezhing here for you as vell! Now, vhere iz it?" The priest said, confirming his fears. Marcel heard the elf rummaging around in the crates, searching for something. He could only stare at the priest's back, terrified as he heard the clink of glass vials and metal.

"Ah, here ve are! Zhis one is for you, Herr Spy. I zhink you vill like zhis one, yes?" The priest chuckled, and Marcel felt surprisingly gentle hands flip him over. He could only look up, pleading silently, as the elf forced his mouth open with two fingers and uncorked a seal vial containing some vile-looking purple liquid.

"Zhis might taste a little bitter, but believe me, zhe results are vorth it!" intoned the priest happily, a sadistic grin stretching across his face. _No, this can't be the end! I don't want to end up like that guard! I've done nothing to him!_

And then the elf poured the vial's contents into Marcel's mouth. As the priest had started, the stuff tasted bitter. But the taste was second to the flood of a burning sensation Marcel felt in his veins, his skin, and his muscles. The burning was _everywhere_!

"Agggghhh!" Marcel choked, his joints unlocking, his muscles unfreezing. For a few minutes, he writhed on the ground, feeling returning to his numb joints and the paralysis spell lifted from his body. After he had gained enough control of his body, Marcel lay still on the floor of the wagon, which had stopped by now seeing how the driver was indisposed.

"You, you helped me, _monsieur," _Marcel stuttered, finding his voice at long last. The priest stared at him, still wearing that shit-eating grin. "I thought… zhat you were going to…." He trailed off.

"Kill you? I can't zee vhy you vould think zhat, after ve made zhat deal before Helgen! Zhanks to you, zee guards vere too busy laughing at your expense to check vhether I had broken out of my binds!" The priest chuckled, bending down to undo the hand and foot bindings preventing Marcel from standing up. Afterward, the priest extended a hand out, offering to help Marcel up. Marcel eyed the hand, and then grasped it with one of his own. The elf helped him to his feet, but Marcel was wobbly after being paralyzed. "You should sit down a vhile, recover your strength. Zhat was a strong Paralysis spell zhat was cast on you, so I needed a strong potion to cure zee paralysis. However, you may feel a bit dizzy and disoriented for a little vhile afterward." The priest said, and Marcel nodded. "Zhank you for that, by zee way. It was horrible, being forced to stay in zhat position for who knows how long!" He exclaimed, and the priest frowned.

"It vas about an hour, I believe. Paralysis is nevar good for ze joints. Here, zhis might help," said the priest, and his hands began to glow with a gentle, pulsing golden light. The light flowed from his fingertips to Marcel's skin, which began to glow as well. Soon, all the aches and pains from the paralysis and the antidote the priest had given him faded away, only to be replaced with gentle warmth. Frankly, Marcel was surprised.

"You are a healer as well, _monsieur?_ I thought you were merely an alchemist," stated Marcel, but the priest merely shook his head at that. "I thought you vere merely a poor thief off of his luck, herr, not a traitor, thief, AND informant to zhe Aldmeri Dominion and zhe Thalmor," the priest retorted.

"_Touché," _Marcel laughed, and then decided it was time for introductions. He couldn't keep calling the man 'you' or 'mad priest'. _Not that I'd say the second one to his face. Not if I want to live, anyway._

"I suppose we better get introduced, then, my name is-" Marcel began, but the priest held up a hand to stop him.

"Ve haf just met, herr, and I zhink zhat unless ve are going to get vell acquainted, I zhink it vould be best if ve didn't know each other's names. Zhat vay, if ve ever part ways and one of us gets captured by ze enemy, if ve don't know each others' names or vhere anyone went, ve vill haf no information for our captors to wrest from us using torture or other means. You understand me?" he said, and Marcel nodded.

"Eet does make sense, I suppose. But vhat will I call you, monsieur? I cannot call you 'ze priest' all zee time!" he chuckled at that, consciously leaving the implied 'mad' part out. He did not want to offend the other elf, at least, not right to his face. However, the Altmer considered Marcel's statement.

"For now, you may call me 'Medic' and I vill call you zhe 'Spy'. Vould zhat vork, Herr Spy?" He asked, smirking a little at the redundant question. Marcel sighed. It was not the worse nickname he had been given before, and he supposed it suited him perfectly. Spy. The occupation he had held since he was old enough to wield a dagger and carry messages.

"It will do, _monsieur_ Medic. It will do. Where are you headed, anyway? I was planning to head for Whiterun, myself." Marcel said, itching for them to leave this spot. The wagon had stopped when the priest, no, the Medic had incapacitated him with the poison, and now the horses fidgeted in their harnesses as heavy rain pounded the wagon's cover. Even with the appearance of the dragon, which had nearly been forgotten, Marcel was desperate to put a few miles in between himself and Helgen.

"Excellent, Herr Spy. I vas planning to head there myself, since I haf a few contacts there vho vill give me vhat I need to start over in Skyrim. It vill also help me get rid of zee Imperials tailing me. Shall ve go? I just need to dump off some useless baggage."

Here Medic gestured to the guard, still twitching and suffering on the wagon bench. It was easy work for the Medic to heft the man up; Marcel noticed the priest was deceptively thin for his strength, but then again, he considered himself strong, and he didn't have the bulking muscles of the soldiers or guards. The guard himself was heaved unceremoniously onto the stone road, where he lay, as limp and lifeless as a corpse.

"Zhe poison should kill him in about an hour, eef zhe animals don't get to him first. Either vay, he vill be telling no tales to zee Imperial soldiers that are sure to be coming zhis vay, along with zee Thalmor." The Medic stated, and then rummaged around in the crates and sacks that littered the bed of the wagon.

"Here is your gear, or vhat I'm assuming is your gear, Herr Spy. It is deceptively heavier than one vould imagine. How zee Imperials did not zee zhat, is a miracle on it's own!" said the Medic, tossing Marcel his hooded tunic, boots, gloves, and finally the pouch containing all of his materials, tools, his balaclava, and his weapons. Sighing with relief, Marcel took care of the primary order of business; the smooth cloth of the balaclava slid over his face, covering up the scars, and matching up with the tan lines he had from wearing the thing for so long. It was like a second skin to him by now. The Medic watched him put on the balaclava with interest, but as Marcel started to strip out of the prisoner's rags, the Medic busied himself as well. Marcel watched out of the corner of his eye as the Medic pulled out better, cleaner robes, and rapidly changed into them. Marcel pulled on his tunic and trousers, made sure his sash was secure around his waist before pulling up the hood of his tunic and slipping on his gloves. There.

He was much warmer now, and the Medic was already in the driver's seat of the wagon, gently flicking the horse's reins. Marcel cast one last glance at the soon-to-be corpse of the Imperial guard as the wagon started to roll away, but pity was one of the things he did not feel for the man. The Imperials deserved no pity, not from him or the Medic. Cold steel would answer instead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: No interest? Okay. I'm going to put this up anyway.**

**~x~**

The morning light was not kind. It streamed through the barred window and fell directly onto his face, ripping him from much-needed sleep. He was sleeping on a bedroll placed over a straw pallet, to provide a bit of a buffer between him and the cold, hard stone floor. It was the crack of dawn so most of the slaves were not yet awake except for the guards, who worked in shifts all day, and the slaves who worked in the kitchens all day. Scout opened his eyes, groaning softly. From his estimation, it was just before the summons bell rang, which would rouse the entire group of household slaves from their slumber and to start the day's work. Which meant that Scout would be expected soon by his Master to provide breakfast. The youth sat up, rubbing at the cloth wraps wound around his hands. The tightly bound cloth did more than just protect his hands from the weather and blisters. He had become desensitized to it over time. Scout sat up, but did not get out of the bedroll, unwilling to relinquish the warmth of the bedroll. His cotton tunic, ragged and patched, did little to shield Scout from the elements or conserve his body heat. Such was the life of a slave. On the 25th of Evening Star, when the New Life Festival was being celebrated, would mark the 16th year of Scout being a slave to his current Master. When others would be giving and receiving gifts, Scout would instead face serving food in the main dining area as his Master celebrated with his guests, and then be a part of the feast himself later.

_Twenty-two more days, then, til another year has passed since my mother abandoned me to the slavers. Joy to my frickin' life._

And then the bell rang, a long, mournful tone to accompany Scout's morbid thoughts. The Master would already be up by now, and if Scout didn't leave now, he'd be angry. For a moment, Scout considered being late, to piss off Master Hadvar. But even as he thought it, a piercing pain shot through the markings tattooed on his cheek. Clapping a hand to his cheek, Scout employed many of the curse words he had learned over the years as he rocked back and forth, waiting for the pain to cease. The slave brand would never tolerate disobedience. His Master had explained it to him once, when he had experienced the burning pain in day and night. The slave brand, which comprised of an ancient language that Scout couldn't recognize, but then again, Scout couldn't read Nordic script either. In this language, each word contained magical properties. When a slave was branded (and here Hadvar had described it in loving detail), mages could 'activate' the properties of the word, and while the slave remained in bonds, the 'word' would be active, and with it the mages could bind special magicks so that every slave owner could cause the slave to pass out, to experience pain, or become paralyzed. Scout shuddered as he remembered the first three years. Those commands had been used every day, breaking down the stubborn wall of defiance he had built up before he had been sold. The slave traders had been harsh, but Scout had glimpsed freedom before and by the Divines he wasn't going to bend to the petty and vile men who made their living by selling others to the highest bidder. They had beaten him, burned him, cut him, starved him, and yet they couldn't break him. He had been branded with all haste, and sold off in the markets of Whiterun. They were glad to get rid of him, after Scout had managed to kill one of them.

By now, the pain had faded, but more would arrive soon if Scout didn't get a move on. Shivering in the chilly air, Scout quickly rose from the bedroll. Since he was the favored slave of the household, as well as his Master's source of food, he was allotted a small, private room, though barely big enough to fit his bedroll, and the room itself was placed right next to the stairs. Being extremely wealthy, the Master lived in a house with three levels: a basement, where the kitchens, larder, and storeroom were located along with the slaves' sleeping quarters and mess hall, and that where Scout's room was located as well. The ground floor was where most of the dealings and meetings relating to the Master's business took place, from farmers bringing in lists of crops and profits to innkeepers and blacksmiths. Master Hadvar Cold-eye was a wealthy Nord, with many connections and a high standing, from what Scout could tell. Potential clients and businessmen came knocking everyday, and that was where Scout earned his Master's favor. Being of small build, despite being a Nord, Scout had learned the tricks and the trade of being a pickpocket, taught by his Master. No one would suspect a slave of stealing, so when the wealthy clients arrived, Scout would rifle through their belongings and the objects they had, stealing anything of value and any documents. The former would be sent to a fence, the documents would be scoured for any sort of information to give his Master an edge. Oh yes, Scout was an asset to his Master. _But it's not my choice. I would never want to be an asset to him._

And now Scout would be late, if he didn't hurry, and he didn't want to feel the pain in his cheek again. Grumbling, he stood up and hurried out of the barred wooden door. The kitchen was, predictably, already bustling, and the Master's breakfast tray was already laid out. Scout took it without a word, and easily hefted the considerably weighty tray. He could already hear people moving upstairs as he headed for the flight of stairs, right next to his small closet room. The Master's guests were awake, it seemed. Scout sighed. He did not want them to see him, a lowly slave, because then he would be subject to their stares and the proof of their ignorance. The higher-ups in terms of wealth and status did not care to show some courtesy to slaves and at least ignore him; no, they had to turn up their noses, and Scout knew they would insult. They judged other wealthy owners on the 'quality' of their slaves: looks, and services. Scout had been judged to be of good breeding stock, but too thing and pale. The Master had had to use the paralysis feature of the slave brands, since the remark had been made while Scout was passing by and he had promptly tried to murder the man who'd made the remark. Scout still had the whip scars from the Master's punishment afterward as well.

But thankfully, the Divines were on Scout's side this morning, because the people that were up did not comment on his appearance, after seeing the slave's brand on his cheek. His head bowed, Scout gritted his teeth as he passed, feeling their burning stares on his back. _Why are you looking at me? Go on, I'm just another shitty slave, nothin' to see here._

He walked up the second flight of stairs, to where the Master had the whole floor to himself. Even Scout hadn't been in all of the rooms, and he was the only slave to be allowed up there, maybe even the only person. The Master always met with his friends and clients downstairs, and no one questioned him, least of all his slaves. Scout ascended each step carefully, still carrying the heavy tray. He could smell the steaming oatmeal, made of the best grown grain gold could buy, seasoned with sugars and other spices. Scout's stomach growled. He had messed up yesterday, and thus he had been deprived of his own meager meal. He had spilled the soup he was supposed to take upstairs, courtesy of another slave tripping him as he went up the stairs. The other slaves in the household did not take kindly to Scout being the 'favorite', even if they had no knowledge of what the position entailed. All they knew was that Scout had his own room, when the rest of the household slaves slept in a giant, drafty room with only straw pallets, that he was permitted upstairs, and that the Master took Scout with him everywhere. But everything came at a price. Scout knew the scars on his neck would last for the rest of his life, and what the Master did to him, to his body, would last even longer than a lifetime.

Finally, Scout reached the top of the stairs. The top floor was merely a long hallway straight down the middle, with a multitude of wooden doors, all closed and locked (Scout had been beaten for trying to open one of them once, and he still couldn't open them afterwards). His Master's bedroom was the door at the end of the hallway, the ornately carved door made out of some sort of expensive, dark wood. Scout walked quickly through the corridor, his steps light and quiet. If he made too much noise, it would mean punishment later, and Scout was still aching from the Master's last punishment. Master Hadvar was getting more creative with his punishments, each more cruel than the last. But creative, of course, Scout had to give him that. There was no sound, no response as Scout lifted one bandaged hand and timidly knocked on the door. He was not allowed to come inside without permission, EVER. Scout would never dare disobey this order, because the punishment had been so severe. The iron brand had been overheated, and thus the message stamped on his back was bigger than it should have been. Scout shook his head, quivering slightly. He never wanted that to happen again, to be immobilized while the hot iron stamped letters across his back, marking him as the Master's slave, to smell his own burning skin as it sizzled under the hot metal. _He's never touching me like that again, I swear… I won't give him a reason. _He was not giving in, he wasn't! Scout just wanted to avoid having words permanently scarred into his flesh. It was self-preservation, right? _Yeah, just keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day it will be true,_ he thought bitterly. He knocked softly again, and this time he heard a distinct, "Enter."

Permission granted, Scout carefully opened the ebony door, balancing the tray with one hand as he scooted in. His Master was sitting in a plush armchair, already full dressed and groomed for the day. His black hair, unusual for a Nord, was pulled back and arranged neatly in a ponytail, and his face was washed and shaved. He was dressed in fine clothes, a tunic detailed in black and green, along with matching gloves and boots. And, of course, his illusions were already in place. His skin was now of a healthy pallor and his eyes were ice blue. He looked up as Scout entered, and a cold smile appeared on his features.

"Come in and close the door," he ordered, and Scout obeyed, shutting the door behind him and barring it so that anyone outside could not enter without breaking down the door. With the door shut, the room was plunged into shadow, the only light being from the curtained window, which was filtered into a dark red light. In the darkness of the room, the Master dropped his illusion. His skin became whiter, paler than what should be possible. His eyes were no longer an icy blue, but instead a reddish-yellow, with a slit pupil, imitating a cat's eye. And, from his mouth, now widely stretched in a grin, his canines elongated, revealing fangs. Scout stiffened at the sight. No matter how many times he saw the change, his Master's fanged face never ceased to scare him. And this was the hard truth. Master Hadvar Blue-eye was actually a vampire, and Scout was his thrall. And now he was here, bringing breakfast. More appropriately, Scout _was_ breakfast. His Master needed blood, blood to fuel his twisted blood magic and to feed his vampiric hunger, and Scout was the one he had chosen to be his source.

"Do you have the knife?" His Master hissed, his voice raspy and sinister. Scout nodded, shivering under the vampire's gaze, and set the tray down. There was a knife among the utensils, meant to cut meat. Holding it by the blade, Scout walked towards his Master, propelled by a will he could not understand. The tattoos of a vampire thrall, burned on both hands, twitched under their bandages, making Scout's grip on the knife shaky. His body craved his Master, craved being fed from, and Scout hated it. He hated himself for being a thrall, because while he was the slave of his Master, Scout would not age. While his Master lived, Scout would remain eternally young, eternally strong, eternally enslaved. When Hadvar had told him, Scout had tried to kill himself. For Scout, it had been a last act of defiance, to die before the Master's blood magic took effect and Scout was bound to him. But the Master had ways to keep him alive by force, illusion spells that made Scout think and feel differently. Scout had been bound by the spells for months, living in a nightmare as he had emotions he didn't want and acted placid. And then the spells were in place, and Scout was a thrall. If Hadvar chose to invoke the power of the tattoos on his hands, Scout would be powerless to fight. If the Master ordered Scout to fall to his death, Scout would happily take the leap off of a cliff. It sickened him.

And now, Scout offered the vampire the hilt of the knife, who took it. "Kneel," He rasped, and Scout felt the tattoos on his hands come to life with magic. Scout found himself kneeling on the floor moments later, tilting his head so his Master had the best access to his neck. He could see the vampire's face light up with a red bloodlust, and he lightly drew the knife across Scout's neck, just barely piercing the skin, cutting over the scars he had left there before. And then the man descended, and Scout felt the cut pierced by two sharp fangs. And then his Master began to feed. It wasn't pleasurable for Scout; it was painful beyond all measure. He was locked in place until his Master was finished with his breakfast, and Scout's fists clenched. _I hate him; I hate him so much. If I ever get the chance, I'll cut off his frickin' head and burn it._

It was ten minutes before his Master was satisfied, and Scout was starting to feel dizzy as the man's fangs withdrew from his neck, and the man grinned at him, a trickle of blood running down his chin from where it had dripped from his fangs. He wiped it off using Scout's tunic, and then nodded at the boy. Scout felt his legs unlock, and he stood up shakily, using the nearby table for the support. His Master had indulged himself a little too much, and the vampire acted smug because of it. Scout rubbed at his neck, wincing as the wound stung as his hand passed over it, and some blood smudged his bandages as he pulled his hand away. "Here, we can't have the guests seeing those puncture marks," Hadvar muttered, and his hand glowed with a familiar, golden light. The skin on Scout's neck sealed over, but even the healing spell couldn't replace lost blood, and Scout felt weak and sick. And now his Master pulled over the breakfast tray and started to dig in, eating with a grace that he had lacked when drinking Scout's blood. Scout stood there awkwardly, waiting to be dismissed. Usually, after breakfast, Scout was allowed an hour to himself, to recover from the blood loss. Usually he spent his time in the temple of Kyne, where the quiet healers and priests did not mind his presence. Indeed, they welcomed him and allowed him to sit on a bench and watch them heal their sick and wounded patients. The priests were adept at Restoration magic, of which Scout was jealous. He was highly skilled in Alteration, but his powers were only used by his Master to enforce his position, and Scout wished he could heal wounds and treat the sick. It seemed like more of a blessing, to be able to fix someone's problems with a spell.

"There is an important client coming today, my thrall, and I believe he will be coming with several important documents that needs to come into my hands. Do you understand me?" Hadvar rasped, and Scout glowered. His 'work' meant that he would be busy the entire day, with no breaks or time between feedings.

"Do you understand me?" The Master repeated, his eyes cold and his half-smile icy.

"Yeah," Scout said, his tone a little resentful. He knew what the vampire wanted him to do. He wanted Scout to call him Master. But Scout would not do it. He wasn't completely broken yet. He still had a bit of useless defiance.

"Yes… what?" The Master asked, a tinge of anger bleeding into his expression. He wasn't happy, that was for sure.

"Yeah, I understand ya'," Scout spat, and then turned to leave the room. Bad idea. He heard the spell charging up, and a bright red light flooded the room briefly, the second before something solid hit him in the back.

The next thing he knew, Scout was cowering on the floor, his hands over his head, shivering as an irresistible fear took over his senses. All his senses screamed at him to run, to hide from the figure that was approaching behind him. But his joints were locked in place, quivering and trembling from the foul illusion magic overriding his senses. Scout curled up in the fetal position, his eyes squeezed shut, trembling with terror as his Master circled around him, his footsteps soft on the wooden floor.

"Have the last few years taught you nothing, boy?" he hissed, his voice quiet, but Scout could hear the barely restrained anger. The vampire paced around his cowering form, his steps methodical and even.

"Your mother was a whore and hooked on skooma," the Master began, his voice still full of restrained rage, "And once you were old enough, she sold you to pay off your debts. The slavers warned me when I bought you that you were resilient, stubborn, and unbreakable. And yet, I bought you anyway, the skinny boy with unnatural speed…" Hadvar trailed off. Scout remained in his curled up position, body and mind still captured by the illusion, but he was also quaking in real fear. He knew it was pointless defiance, but Scout couldn't help it. Every day when Scout went outside, away from his Master's side, he felt free. Like he could just stroll out of Whiterun's gates (which he couldn't) and look over the plains, could see for miles and miles, and then choose which way he wanted to go. He wanted to choose his own path. That was one dream he couldn't get rid of, like a dog chewing on a worn bone even after it had been picked clean.

The blow was a surprise, but not unexpected. The boot caught Scout square in the gut, and he let out a sharp gasp, uncurling from his position and covering his midriff with his arms, attempting to shield himself. The next blow landed on his back, and he arched in pain, but did not make a sound. Making a noise would only spur his Master on. Scout gritted his teeth and the vampire continued to kick him. He would have bruises later, all over his arms and legs and back and chest. But all he could do for now was weather the storm of his Master's anger for now, and face the repercussions later.

Finally, the Master finished the last of the blows with a well-aimed kick to Scout's head, his anger back under control. "Get up," he said, his voice icy cold. Scout tried, he really did, but his limbs were still trembling violently. As he started to get up, his legs gave out, and he tumbled back down again. His Master sighed, and then grasped his shoulder and violently yanked him back up on his feet.

"We will discuss your punishment later, Scout, after we have our meeting with the client. I have your formal outfit, it is with the rest of the formal clothes," His Master said, opening the door to the room and dragging Scout down the hallway. Scout thought the Master would drag him down to the kitchens and then to the storeroom, but the vampire stopped at the end of the hallway. As Scout watched, the vampire's hands glowed a bright green, alight with magic, and another illusion was cast. The vampire's appearance changed again, his skin becoming less pale, his fangs vanishing, and his eyes turned the icy blue Scout had seen earlier.

"Now, go," he hissed, giving Scout a forceful push towards the stairs, causing Scout to stumble forward and grasp the banister for support. Scout startled to scramble downstairs, eager to be away from his master. But his next words stopped Scout in his tracks.

"And remember. If you try anything foolish, or fail me, I'll make sure you'll never run again."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: REVIEWS. I LOVE THEM.**

**~x~**

**Sniper**

He awoke slumped over a moss-covered log, the rising sun filling the clearing he was in with a golden, hazy light as it struck the mist that had gathered there overnight. His clothes were torn by what appeared to be giant claws, and there were bloody scratches all over him. In short, Sniper looked like he had gotten into an argument with a cave bear. _Must've transformed sometime in the early hours of the morning, or something._ Groaning, he pushed himself to his feet, to take in his surroundings a bit better. Sniper couldn't see the clearing where he'd pitched camp last night, nor any of the landmarks near it that he had memorized. But there was a giant bloody trail left behind, with great, strange footprints embedded in the loam and soil, along with claw marks torn into the bark of trees. Indeed, his beast form, when he was not in control, seemed to be bent on destruction. Such was a risk of being a werewolf. Sniper's transformations were painful, sometimes nearly drawing him to the edge of unconsciousness, and he rarely had control over the monster that came out. It was a risky gamble, because if he was in control, it was very difficult to get over the sights, smells, and the feel of wherever he was, which was so different from when he was merely a wood elf. He would get confused easily, more prone to panicking. And of course, when Sniper wasn't in control, he wasn't aware. He would simply wake up after the beast disappeared. These transformations only happened once a day, but Sniper had no control over when he transformed. He had been run out of many villages and towns because of his lack of control, but what could he do?

Sniper sighed. He had been living in the wild places for a few years, using nothing but his outdoorsman skills and his hunter's instinct to survive. Occasionally he would stumble across a lone village and take a few quick jobs, to bring in some gold and a hot meal.

He looked over his surroundings once more, memorizing the terrain. The stream that was nearby flowed down the slope of the hill he was on, and finally filtered past the trees to the giant plain that housed the hold of Whiterun. For a few minutes, Sniper stood, enjoying the view, and then turned away. He had to follow the trail back to his camp (or what remained of it), and he lacked his trusty knife and his bow. Sniper was defenseless, but if he moved quickly and quietly he wouldn't draw the attention of any predators. Last thing he needed was to fistfight a saber cat or cave bear. Werewolf or not, either one would tear him to shreds. Sniper sighed again, exasperated by his situation. And then he heard a rustle nearby and he crouched down, his torn tunic still blending easily in with the surroundings. It was nothing but an elk, which was a relief. The animal appeared calm as it munched on tufts of grass. If there was a predator nearby, the elk would be the first to sense it and flee. Sniper started to slink away, his bare feet (he had taken his boots off to sleep the night before) making no noise as he tread over the cold soil. The trail was extremely easy to follow, enough that even a person unskilled in tracking could follow it. Along the way he would find a corpse of some unlucky animal: a deer here, a rabbit there, a fox torn completely open. _At least nobody got hurt this time,_ Sniper thought with a shudder. He had learned that his uncontrolled beast form craved one substance and one substance only: human flesh. It allowed the beast to use powers Sniper couldn't when he was in control, and it allowed the beast to remain in the werewolf form longer. He could remember the first time he had transformed near a village; how he had woken up with so many wounds he could barely move. How, after finding a day where he had transformed early and when he was in control, had visited the village and found he had killed an old man. Pounced right on him, the villagers said, and tore him to pieces, then eaten half of the man's corpse before they managed to drive him off. _Ain't nothing like that happenin' again, I swear on it. The life of a hunter's alright for me, anyway._

His campsite was a right mess when he finally arrived. His tent and bedroll were practically unscathed, with only a few scratches in their fabric that could be easily sewn up. No, the fire pit he had dug yesterday had been trashed, the wood scattered everywhere. His bow, his precious hunting bow, had been snapped in half, and the bowstring chewed right through. His sheathes of arrows, the kind he kept strapped to his back, were smashed right through the middle, irreparable. His knife was still in its sturdy leather sheath, and was untouched. Now he would have to go to Whiterun, if he wanted to continue his style of living. Living alone in the woods and mountains of Skyrim was suicide if one didn't have the proper tools, and without his bow Sniper felt defenseless. He dropped down on his knees to crawl into the tent, and started to search his bedroll. He had to make sure it had not gotten lost, the only memoir he had from his mother before he had fled into the woods.

_Ah, here it is!_ Sniper pulled out a silver ring. It had a few intricate carvings along the band, and a silver wolf's head was the main decoration. A man had given it to his mother long ago, as a sort of payment for a ride she arranged for him to Falkreath. And she had given it to Sniper before she had been taken away. Sniper's fist clenched momentarily around the ring before he just sighed again and slipped the ring on. It seemed to glow for a moment, but that could've just been the sunlight reflecting off it it.

Rummaging around in his rucksack, Sniper pulled out another tunic, identical to the one he was wearing, but was undamaged by claw marks. He dressed quickly, pulling on his leather boots, and stuffed the damaged tunic back into the rucksack. He pulled the covering off of his tent, rolled it up into his bedroll, and tied the bundled up bedroll to the bottom of his rucksack. He then strapped his trusty knife to his side, and gave one last glance at his precious bow before changing direction and heading towards the plains. Once there, he could easily located Whiterun. Since he already transformed today, he could slip in there, purchase what he needed, maybe stop for a quick bite to eat, and then slip back out again. He would probably need to camp out on the plains, but that wouldn't be a problem.

Now that he had a plan, Sniper felt much more reassured as he strode down the forested slope towards the plains. There was a chilly breeze, but that was because autumn was here, and soon it would be the mind-numbing cold of winter soon, where snow would coat everything. _How the Nords survive here is beyond me._ But the sun was shining, which was a good sign it would be mildly warm and pleasant sometime before noon. His feet instinctively found a worn path, perhaps used by hunters, and soon he was out of the woods and on the giant plain, with the giant hold of Whiterun looming in the distance, perched on the only large hill overlooking everything for miles around. He passed by a few farms, where men and women labored over cabbages, carrots, and wheat, and sped up his pace a little. He didn't like farms too much, especially since he was raised on one. Too many bad memoires, but he'd best not think about it now. There were stables on the outskirts of the hold, where a man sat on a simple stool near where the horses were on display, watching travelers pass by. It'd be useful to have a horse, but they were mouths to feed, and they couldn't handle most of the rocky terrain Sniper passed through. Tipping the brim of his hat down, Sniper proceeded up the small slope towards the entrance to the hold, passing under a rocky arch as he did so, and crossing a drawbridge. Finally, he stood in a line of people waiting to enter the hold as the guards slowly opened the doors, large enough so that three large men standing side by side could pass. Sniper slipped in amongst the rest of the crowd, passing under the large archway, and casting the giant oak door a weary glance. He didn't want to feel trapped by this place, like he had nowhere to run if things went wrong. He passed over a small bridge, which was over a small running stream. Already on his right he could see a blacksmith forge, with someone (a woman) already working the bellows. Further up the street he could also see a few market stalls, where he'd be able to get some fresh supplies. Presumably he could also find an inn there and some spiced mead for a coin or two.

"Well, I'm off to the Drunken Huntsman. I need some special arrows for my next hunting trip, and the Warmaiden just doesn't have what I need. Meet you there at sunset?" A voice said nearby, and Sniper's head turned to catch the tail of the conversation. There was another man nearby, a Nord, speaking to his friend while dressed in a similar fashion to Sniper: leather tunic, painted to bled in with the environment, a giant hunting bow strapped to his back, and a quiver of arrows as well. The man was certainly a hunter, no doubt about that. _Maybe I can get some better gear at this 'Drunken Huntsman' place. But where is the bloody place?_

He decided to linger while the other two finished conversation, and then follow the hunter to the location. The Nord man finished his conversation quickly, and started up a path heading to a higher part of the city. Sniper followed, feeling a bit foolish. Here he was, stalking a man he had never known, all because he was too nervous to ask for directions! _I've gone so long without people, it feels awkward just walking next to someone. I need to work on my social skills more often._

The Nord disappeared into a large building, which was easily identified as the Drunken Huntsman by the large sign outside of it. Sniper cautiously opened the door, and stepped inside, feeling a large gust of warmth greet him. Inside there was a roaring fire going, with a few men standing near it, watching their meat cook on open spits. Pots simmered tantalizingly above the fire, their contents wafting towards him on a breeze. No one cast him a second glance as he closed the door and headed towards the elf standing behind the counter, where many bows and arrows were set on display.

"You look like you lost an argument with a cave bear," the elf said, raising his eyebrows at the Sniper, who gave a weak laugh. "'S true enough, the bugger got me good," he said, his voice a bit hoarse. How long had it been since he had had conversation with someone like this? It felt pretty nice, actually. "I'll be needing a new bow, and some arrows as well," he said, and the elf nodded before gesturing at the selection.

The Sniper made his purchases quickly, and walked out of the Drunken Huntsman with a new recurve bow strapped his back, along with a few sheaves of arrows and a full quiver. It had only cost him a bit of his gold (he had quite the amount saved up), and now he needed new tunics, as well as some supplies. Whistling cheerfully, the Sniper made his way back down the path towards the place called 'Warmaidens'. Surely they would have something there. Everything seemed to be going to plan today.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: The only reviewer gave me the inspiration needed to write another chapter.**

**~x~**

**Spy**

"Vake up, dummkopf! Ve are almost there!"

Someone was shaking him awake. Spy groaned, his eyes fluttering open as he tiredly propped himself up on his elbow. The wagon had stopped moving, a relief for him, since all of his joins were so sore from the bumping and jostling of the hard wooden floor. His eyes opened considerably wider as he realized it was the Medic, the half-mad Altmer that had woken him up. The elf still scared him a little, as Spy had no idea about the man's past life or his motives.

"Ees eet my turn to drive?" He groaned, rubbing his face and straightening the balaclava. The Medic offered him a hand, and he took it, standing up and re-adjusting his clothes. "Indeed, mein friend, it is. But ve should be in sight of Whiterun, zhe closest hold, vithin a few hours." The Medic said, and sat down; arranging the blankets he had been laying on. The wagon, they had discovered, was not kind to their nether regions or their backsides when sat on for hours at a time. Still, it was better than being in the hands of the Thalmor. After dusting himself off, Marcel plopped down into the driver's seat of the wagon, while the Medic bundled himself in the blankets and tried to get comfortable, with little success. Marcel flicked the reins once, and obediently the horses pulling the wagon got into gear, setting off again on the bumpy stone road.

After a few more minutes, his lower back and legs felt numb from the wagon's progress, and he knew later on he would be very, very sore. Hopefully Whiterun would be in sight soon, and there would be a place he could rent a room for the night, and find a decent meal. Trying to ignore his stomach's incessant growling, Marcel set his eyes to the road ahead, suddenly eager to get a move on. He flicked the reins again, setting the horses into a faster pace. Up ahead, the trees were clearing up a bit, and as the wagon slowly ascended up a hill, Marcel could see glimpse of the great flat plains that they would traverse shortly, to follow the path to the only hill, to where the walled keep of Whiterun lorded over the entire plain. Suddenly eager, Marcel went to flick the reins again, when a humorless, dry voice echoed from the back of the wagon, "Flick zhe reins again, I dare you, and you vill know just how many poisons I haf back here that vill incapacitate a man in twenty seconds."

Three hours later, the wagon rolled out onto the plains, and the Spy felt that his legs and behind would never regain any feeling in them. The Altmer was out like a light, his soft snores emanating from the back of the wagon. It had been tantalizing for the past hour, to watch the plains roll by right next to them, separated by a small downward slope, dotted with the large rocks that were commonplace in Skyrim. While the plains were accessible by foot, the wagon had to wind around the tree line until there was one place where the slope wasn't so rocky and the paved road could pass through. All the while, Marcel had felt impatient and overeager to reach Whiterun. Had he been alone, he would have left the wagon and instead taken one of the horses, who were sure-footed and made up their lack of speed with stamina and endurance. They would have been able to navigate the rocky slope, but Marcel wasn't willing to abandon the Altmer, who had fallen asleep about ten minutes after his threat to poison the dark elf if he sped the wagon up. Marcel had made a promise to make a temporary alliance, and occupation notwithstanding, he was honor bound to keep his promise. Plus, a dagger wasn't much of a weapon again the dangers that Skyrim presented. Nor would his petty illusions be much use out here, besides warding off the occasional wild animal.

_At least we're out in the open here. I can see for miles around. It should be easy to spot any enemies nearby,_ Spy grimaced, casting furtive glances from under his hood, all the while not moving his head. _Of course, that also means we can be seen from miles away. A lone wagon is a great target for bandits._

Footsteps and hoof beats ahead drew his attention back from his musing. Marcel straightened up in his seat, all senses firing. There was a party of ten men approaching, all armed with shields, bows, and swords, all dressed in identical armor. The Spy relaxed a little when he saw the Whiterun horse embossed on all the shields, but he did not drop his guard. Anyone could wear armor and pretend to be a guard. The party drew closer, and Spy had to restrain himself from drawing the dagger at his side. Aggravating the approaching party was not the best idea, especially since he was outnumbered ten to one. Ten to two, if the Medic woke up, but even the Altmer's collection of poisons wouldn't save them in a fight.

"Halt! Stay where you are!" called one of the guards, and Marcel, forced to comply, grimly pulled on the reins, bringing the wagon to a stop. Keeping his face passive and neutral, the Spy stayed where he was, seated on the driver's bench, waiting as the soldiers drew closer. Fanning out, the ten soldiers formed a semi-circle around the wagon, hands on their weapons, but nothing was drawn.

"State your business," The guard demanded, and Marcel saw no choice but to comply.

"I am delivering alchemical ingredients and potions to Whiterun, which I hope to sell to ze apothecary. I also have a passenger, one priest of Arkay, who paid me to bring 'im along because zhe roads are dangerous zhese days," The Spy said, gesturing with one hand towards the back. One guard circled around, inspecting the crates full of the corked bottles and other unknown ingredients, and the gold and crimson robed figure, wrapped up in the blankets and still sleeping. How the Altmer could sleep through this, Marcel would never know.

"Alright, you're good to go. You'll be stopped at the gates; the city is closed with dragons about. Tell him that Guardsman Marcus and his patrol checked you, and you'll be let through," The guard continued, but Marcel halted him.

"Did you say a dragon, monsieur? Did I hear zhat right?" he asked, cautious. He had been paralyzed when the former wagon guard and the Medic had seen the dragon, and being raised on the stories of the mythical dragons, he was doubtful it had actually been a dragon.

"There have been rumors and reported sightings of a giant black dragon flying from the direction of Helgen and over the town of Riverwood. The Jarl of Whiterun has closed the city to visitors until further notice, but you'll be fine. Watch out for bandits!" Guardsman Marcus stated, waving his men to the side and allowing Spy to get the wagon rolling again. The tension drained out of Marcel with every foot he put between himself and the guard patrol. He was always nervous around guards. He had not had happy past encounters while performing illegal tasks.

"Vell, I think zhat confirms that we haf a dragon problem on our hands, Herr." A voice commented behind him, and Marcel turned to see the Altmer leaning casually against the side of the wagon. The Altmer had been feigning sleep while the guards had inspected the wagon, and had overheard the conversation.

"Indeed, but I still got us a way inside ze city, monsieur. We should be safe zhere, for ze time being," Marcel replied, the wagon passing by the stables, "Ah, here we are. Ze hold of Whiterun, mon ami."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:**

**ANNNNDDD WE'RE BACK! Now introducing Skyrim's favorite firebug, the Pyro! Props to you if you can guess what race he is, and where he was born! Next up will be the Scout, and then we'll be all caught up with the major events, and then the whole party can get together and get this adventure started! Read on!**

**~x~**

**Pyro**

The plains of Whiterun were ripe with game, if one knew where to look. The keep loomed in the distance, blurred in the pleasant heat of the sun. The herd of deer was grazing peacefully at the top of a grass-covered hill. From their position, all of the deer could see for miles around. The vantage point was perfect warning against predators. At least, it was a warning against predators of the four-legged kind. A figure, dressed in grubby and filthy robes from head to foot and other heavy clothing, crouched in the grass a few feet from the deer. His robes were so smeared with other dirt and other grime he blended in with the plain itself. Months of trial and error, along with long periods of near starvation had taught him to quiet his breathing, to crawl silently along the ground, smearing more dirt and mud onto his robes.

The moment to strike was nearly at hand. The deer were getting restless now, their animal instincts indicating that something was wrong, but it was too late. The Pyro's hands glowed a brilliant crimson red and vibrant orange for a moment, and in the next second the largest buck was aflame, it's corpse charred and blackened, the fur still crackling with blue and orange flames. As the rest of the deer fled in panic and terror, the shrouded figure bent over the flaming buck, making cloth-muffled grunts of happiness as he stripped off his gloves, revealing pale, pale hands awash with burn scars. Some of the scars were still puffed pink and raw, while the others were faded white with age.

Quickly, the Pyro dropped to his knees and ran his hands through the burning fur, not caring that his hands were scorched. For the briefest moment, the flames licked his hands and his sleeves, not hot enough to melt skin, but instead scorched, irritating the healing burns on his hands, and catching fire to the cloth of his robes. And then the Pyro unhappily extinguished the flames on his robes in the dirt, smearing the stuff all over his hands as well, watching as the last of the deer's hide was charred to a crisp. Then the flames were gone, and it was time to drag his meal back to his home.

His home was little more than a shallow cave, with a pelt canvas stretched over it to keep the weather and wind out. There was a bedroll, filthy as his robes, also made of animal pelts, to keep him warm at night. There was little furniture or other necessities, but the Pyro had not seen such necessary for a long time. He had skinning knives and an axe, but all he really needed was the fire. There was a giant pit outside of the cave, with wood stockpiled all around. With a happy grunt, the robed pyromaniac dragged the corpse over to a gore-splattered rock, caked with the remains of the Pyro's previous meals. The deer was charred already, but he still had to cut it up and prepare it with a bit of other nutrients.

Stripping the gloves off his hands once again, the robed figure shuffled towards the skinning knives and axe, picking them up carefully and walking back towards his meal. With an air of practice, the Pyro quickly skinned the animal, chopping off the hooves and antlers, tossing them to the side. Once finished, he dragged the deer over to a spit, and once he gored the iron bar through the center of the animal, he set it over the logs built up in the fire pit. His hands glowed once more with the kaleidoscope of oranges, reds, and a hint of blue before the searing flames set the logs below the spit on fire. The fire rose up, eagerly consuming both logs and deer in a torrent of flame. But the Pyro did not stop casting the spell, the firelight reflecting against the black eyes hidden beneath grubby cloth. Entranced as he was, the Pyro did not care or notice that his energy was depleting, a result of using too much magicka at once, until his legs shook and the figure hit the ground with a _thud._ His strength sapped, the Pyro rolled over, watching the fire lick at the corpse and the tiny embers float into the bright sky, before being snuffed out quickly.

He remembered the first feeling of fire on his skin, the smell of his own flesh bubbling and melting away under the intense heat of the flames. The Pyro could still hear the sound of the flesh hissing and melting, the liquid skin bubbling and popping in the flames. It had been worth it, all of it, for that moment. It had been beautiful, and then he had fallen unconscious.

It had taken him two years to decipher the spell book that had taught him the spell, two years to manage to read the Nordic script from the world above his birthplace. The Pyro had been born in a world without the heat of the sun, far underground a hated Dwemer ruin, in a cavern light with giant, shining mushrooms and various crystals. There, in the silent city, he had been born, the only one of his kind graced by the ability to see. In place of any sun, the city was instead lit by a giant lamp, hundreds of hand-spans wide and giant, letting a soft orange glow fall upon the silent city and the silent city alone. A servant, a criminal from the world above, had taught him to work the pumps that brought fresh water to the city, and to learn how to catch the sightless fish in the underground river.

In the dim and dark of the cavern, the Pyro had been raised on the hatred of his elders, hatred for the fires and the sunny world above. An outsider had fled into the Dwemer ruins above, clad in nothing in rags and carrying the special spell book. The automatons had taken care of him even before the patrol had reached him, and being blind, the patrol had thrown away the spell book. But the Pyro had retrieved it; entranced by the symbol of the strange hand on the cover, and words he could not understand. He had gotten hold of one of the servants, and forced him to teach him the Nordic script, but it had taken so long… too long.

And then he had finally tried the spell, for the first time since birth viewing a campfire lit by one of the servants, and the Pyro had burned, and burned, and burned… Then he had woken up, surrounded by the too bright outside world, surrounded by the white substance that burned with a chill fire, which he now knew as snow. Here he had moved, from the cold mountainside to the warmer plains of Whiterun, shunned by the locals as a freak, with his too pale skin that was scarred so badly it would never be the same. The Pyro didn't care. He was chasing the fire, seeking more powerful spells. Soon, ever so soon, he would meet the court wizard, and there would be more fire…

Finally, the Pyro recovered enough to stand up again, though his legs were shaking slightly as he shuffled over to the over-cooked deer, carelessly pulling it off the spit and digging in, relishing the burns the hot meat and metal made on his skin. The deer meat was over-cooked, which was good, but it was not charred all the way through, which was his preference. Hunched over the meat, the figure pulled down the cowl of his hood and the facial mask, revealing a scarred, lipless mouth and skin that appeared to be melted off. Opening his mouth, the Pyro revealed a row of fang-like teeth, easily digging into the meat. His face was elf-like, slanted, but his flat nose was strange, with almost slit-like nostrils, similar to a snake's. The eyes were pale pink, almost a rose color, and his ears were pointed. He had no hair; the scalp also coated in burn scars, and the skin still a very pale white.

A roar echoed across the plains. The Pyro's head shot up quickly, and his hands glowed once again. "MMMMPH?" he called, hesitantly, his mouth still full of the deer meat, and as a result of his guttural attempts to speak the Nordic language. So far, he hadn't had much success with communicating, besides the universal signal of pointing at something and offering gold. _That _signal_, _the shopkeepers understood.

But now the Pyro's pink eyes widened as the creature responsible for the roaring came into view, a great brown dragon, twice the size of a house, it's eyes glinting in the light, it's large bat-like wings casting shadows over the plains. And from it's jaws… it was belching fire, great gouts of flame, shimmering red and orange and gold and green and blue, the signals that the fire was the hottest flame. It was beautiful, so beautiful. But the dragon was already flying away, heading towards the keep, roaring as it went, but no longer breathing that wondrous flame. How would it feel, to be bathed in such a flame? It would be the closest the Pyro could ever get to touch the sun, the source of all flame. He had to go now. _Nownownownownownow._


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Oh! I would love some fanart! The Scout is a Nord, by race, with cropped light brown hair and blue eyes. Have another chapter!**

**~x~**

* * *

Scout remained at attention, resisting the urge to fidget uncomfortably in his uniform. The place was already blazing hot, thanks to the roaring fire in the nearby fireplace, and his uniform did nothing to ward off the heat. The man in front of him was dressed in elegant clothes, which spoke of his rank, but he seemed to be sweating a little as well. The man kept adjusting and fiddling with his collar and his clothes. Of course, the Scout's master could be the one causing the nervousness, and Scout couldn't blame the man. His master was laying on his influential magic thickly, charming the noble man with the grace of a cobra enchanting a bird.

Although the man in front of him was technically higher up the pecking order, it was clear to everyone in the room just who was in charge here. The man, a Breton fiddled with his robes for a few more seconds before making eye contact with the Master again. His brown doe eyes flicked nervously from Hadvar's icy blue eyes to the door to his clothes, and then repeated the pattern. When the Breton's eyes focused on his clothes, the Scout's master made a subtle hand symbol, gesturing to the wine jug in front of the two men.

The Breton had already consumed the fine wine inside, the alcohol easing his nerves. Now the man's cup was empty. With trained expertise, the Scout stepped forward and silently leaned over the table, retrieving the wine jug with one hand and pouring the crimson contents into the Breton's cup. However, his other hand was rummaging around in the Breton's pockets with a feather-light touch, seeking out the parcel of documents he had been told to search for.

"It's bad, Hadvar," the Breton began, taking a large sip of the wine before placing the cup back down on the table. The Scout retreated back, the packet of documents wrapped in horker skin tucked under his arm. He felt disgusted, using his natural talent to help his Master gain an edge in the world of Skyrim politics. He hated it, yet he still obeyed. The tattoos itched under his layer of bandages. There was a special pocket inside his uniform, and it was there the Scout tucked the package.

"As you've heard, Helgen was burned to the ground, and there are supposed sightings and rumors of dragons about. Dragon or not, the Stormcloaks are growing in number, especially since that bastard Ulfric Stormcloak managed to escape from the Imperials there. He's back in Windhelm, where we can't touch him. Bandits are getting more daring; with guard patrols stretched thin by the war. Traveling is dangerous, especially in the mountain passes. Perfect place for a bandit ambush, and there are rumors about cultist camps up there as well. Horrors are emerging from the Dwarven ruins, and I hear the Dark Brotherhood is getting a lot of business these days. Any way you look at it, our investments are in danger, even with your connections," The Breton paused for effect, watching Hadvar, waiting for a response. The Scout had to fight from keeping a smirk from appearing on his face. _Ya deserve it, ya freak. I hope yer luck goes to shit._

Such thoughts encouraged a beating or flogging, but the Scout didn't care. He would cling to his last shreds of defiance until he died.

A frown creased his Master's face, and the vampire's brow furrowed with anger.

"My people are well endowed," Hadvar began, his voice smooth and sweet as honey, "And I have enough gold and valuables stored away to pay for any damages that might occur, except for a major catastrophe. I admit dragons were not part of my plans. I am still going to support the Imperials in this side of the war, as General Tullius has personally assured me that he is hot on the trails of the rebels. I also doubt someone would call on the Dark Brotherhood for this investment, seeing how we're up against Nords and their damned sense of honor. I see no reason to stop our transactions and trading," His Master finished, neatly folding his arms on the table.

The Breton nodded again, and then cleared his throat loudly. "And… about our _other_ business?" he trailed off nervously, casting a glance back at Scout. Scout remained where he was, unmoving, having the same staring contest with the wall across from him. Currently he was losing, due to the fact that walls don't blink. He was, however, interested in this secret business of his Master. Did it have to do with the fact that Master Hadvar was a vampire? _What're ya hidin', huh, ya fang-face?_

However, Scout was probably never going to know, especially now that Hadvar was motioning at him to leave the room with a casual flick of his wrist.

Scowling, Scout quickly exited the room, but he did carefully shut the door behind him. He considered putting his ear to the door to hear what the two were talking about, but the risk wasn't worth it. Any of the other slaves would love to rat him out to the Master, and if the guests saw he would get a beating at best.

Tugging at the uncomfortable uniform, the Scout tramped upstairs to deliver the package he had stolen from the Breton before he could go and change out of his stuffy clothes. However, at the top of the stairs, he paused. Down the long and dark hallway, one of the forbidden locked doors was slightly ajar. A glowing green light emanated from the room within, softly pulsing. He was slightly dumbstruck. Why had the door been left ajar? Hadvar was usually perfect on locking the doors; Scout had never seen one left open.

Softly, silently, Scout crept down the hallway, wincing whenever a floorboard groaned under his feet. He darted past the open door, entering Hadvar's room and dropping the documents on the bedside table. After he exited the room, however, Scout's eyes were still drawn to the open door and its soft green glow. Just one peek couldn't hurt, right? Hadvar would never need to know he had looked. Carefully, ever so carefully, Scout crept forward towards the open door. There was only the space of two inches to look into the room, but it was enough.

On the left, closest to the door, was an enchanting table, the cause of the soft green glow. That was harmless enough. Scout shifted slightly, looking through the crack at the rest of the room. There were piles and piles of a strange purple-black gem inside, gems that glowed with a sick, eerie gray light, and Scout's jaw dropped open. The Scout knew what those gems were. He had seen them before, and the Jarl of Whiterun had hanged the mage who had used the gems for treason and murder. Trembling, Scout backed away from the door, from the black soul gems stacked in the other room, pulsing with the souls of murdered people. Black soul gems were used for one and only one purpose only: they were able to capture a large soul, such as that of a humanoid, and trap it. How many people had Hadvar murdered to get all those gems? What was he doing with them?

_I must get outta here. Hadvar's going to kill me if he finds out that I know about this._

What was his Master going to do? Would Scout become one of those poor souls trapped inside those glowing black gems?

Panicking, he scrambled away from the door, in his haste forgetting to keep quiet. He stumbled halfway down the hallway, falling on his hands and knees and bruising both his shins in the process. Scout kept glancing over his shoulder again and again, casting worried glances at the faint green glow behind him. His Master would know as soon as he came upstairs. Scout knew that Hadvar had spelled the doors so that if someone besides him touched it, he would know. So if he tried to close the door, he would be in deep trouble, but if he didn't the Master would know it had been open. Either way, Scout was royally screwed. Even his blood slave status wouldn't shield him from this; Scout had to run. But how could he get out of Whiterun? The guards at the gates accepted bribes, but as a slave Scout had no gold to his name.

Gritting his teeth, Scout slipped down the stairs, his knees still smarting from the fall. _Imma' hafta steal the gold. Ten gold pieces should do it to get me past the guards, but I'm going to need to take a few supplies from the farms._

His mind made up, the Scout nearly dashed to his quarters to gather up what he needed. Hopefully he could pull this off before nightfall. He would be missed at suppertime, and that would trigger a search.

* * *

He thought the two elves would be an easier target than most, being relatively new to this hold. He had never seen them before, and the Altmer had been quite distracted by the bundle of ingredients and potions the high elf carried with him. It had been easy to start searching his pockets, but it only took a second for the dark elf to notice him and grab his arm. Scout had been caught red-handed, his left hand still inside the Altmer's pocket. However, the dark elf hadn't called for a guard, instead he had led Scout by the arm behind the blacksmith's forge, right near the edge of the wall.

"Explain it to me again, boy. Vhy vere you trying to pick mine pocket?" The Altmer asked again in falsely cheerful tones, his eyes glinting dangerously. Scout shifted nervously, eyes watching the high elf's robes flapping in the strong wind blowing through the hold. Secured by the arm by a Dunmer dressed in dark clothing, a hood, and a strange sort of mask, the Scout had nowhere to run. The dark elf had a grip of steel, and every time Scout tried to struggle, he got a blow to the side of the face. It was a light blow, mind, but it was still a bit painful for the young Nord. But the Scout still said nothing. Why should he? He had been caught out in the open, and no excuse would help him now.

"I am not going to ask again, liebe," The Altmer hissed, narrowing his eyes at the Scout.

"Eet would be easier, gamin, eef you just told 'im what 'e wanted to know," The dark elf spoke for the first time, tightening his grip, "And you may avoid some terrible consequences, shall we say…" He trailed off threateningly.

The Scout sighed. He was never going to get out of this if he just remained silent. Maybe the dark elf would let up the death grip on his arm if he told them what they wanted to know.

"Fine. I picked ya pocket 'cause I needed da gold, ya know? 'S not like the guards' bribes pay themselves, yeah?" The Scout shrugged.

"Vhy do you need to bribe zhe guards?" The high elf questioned, and the Scout smirked at him.

"Ya never seen a slave before have ya buddy? 'M not exactly allowed to go outside the city, ya hear me? Gotta pay up a bribe, understand?" The Scout grinned, but without humor, "An' 'm not exactly paid wages to work as a slave. Y'know, keyword being slave."

There was a moment's pause, in which the Scout was silently prepping himself for a beating. He had often got into trouble because of his words, along with his cocksure manner despite being a slave. A slave was supposed to be silent and obedient, something the Scout was definitely NOT on both counts. But then the dark elf let go of his arm and stepped back a pace.

"So your plan eez to get out of zhis city and escape your master, eez zhat your plan?" The dark elf asked, and Scout nodded, "And after zhat? Do you plan to go somewhere or somezhing?"

"Uh…" The Scout trailed off, his thoughts derailed by the elf's statement. He hadn't given it much thought about what happened after he had escaped the city. He had been focused on, well, escaping. There really wasn't any place Scout wanted to go or any place he wanted to see because all he wanted to do was get away from Hadvar and this wretched place.

The dark elf sighed, but then Scout watched a fearsome glint appear in his eye. The dark elf drew backwards, motioning for the Altmer to join him. Scout stayed where he was, more so out of curiosity than obligation. They soon began a fiercely whispered conversation, and often pointed towards him and then made strange gestures. However, after about five minutes, the conversation ended, and the Dunmer turned back towards the Scout.

"Are you interested in a possible deal, boy?" He asked, and Scout frowned at him.

"Maybe, maybe not. What's the deal?" Scout asked, and the Dunmer beckoned him forward.

"My friend and I here need people who can handle themselves in a fight and would be willing to travel with us, despite the danger, and follow the rules we set down. You would be free, boy, and we'd be willing to split coin with you. But first, are you interested?" The Dunmer asked, and Scout's jaw nearly dropped down.

He was being offered a free ticket out of the city, along with the chance to travel and earn coin of his own. He nodded quickly, and the Dunmer grinned.

"Can you handle yourself in fight, boy?" The dark elf gasped, and the Scout nodded quickly. He had been trained to fight by Hadvar and the fellow slaves, and he was quite good at it too.

"Vhat weapons do you use?" The Altmer questioned, still standing back a few paces away, his face passive.

"Only weapon I'm good with is a mace, along with a light armor," The Scout replied, feeling excited. Was he going to get his very own weapon? "An' I can use a lil' magic too. Alteration," he hastily continued as the dark elf raised one eyebrow. The two elves glanced at one another and then the dark elf reached out a hand.

"Before we seal zhe deal, know this. It ees too risky for all of us to share our real names, oui? One of the rules is zhat we must call each other by a different name. I go as zhe Spy, and my friend here ees zhe Medic. We also have an archer, codenamed zhe Sniper, but 'e's currently waiting near zhe wagons. Do you have a preferred name?" The Spy asked, and the Scout shrugged.

"Slavers kept calling me the Scout, on account of my speed, ya know. I guess that'll do," The Scout said, and the Spy nodded in agreement.

"I want you to wait here with zhe Medic, Scout, while I get zhe weapon and armor for you from zhe blacksmith. After zhat, you will accompany us to the wagon and we will set off. But for now, I think eet ees best you remain out of sight. I don't want to meet your master with you in tow."

* * *

It was another hour before the Spy returned, and the Scout was growing impatient. His freedom had been dangled before him like a carrot, and the young Nord just wanted to jump up and get the damned thing already. He leaned against the hold's wall, the Medic sitting a few paces away, quietly preening over his potions and ingredients. _The elf's some kinda alchemist or priest, I dunno which. Silent fella', isn't he. Guy doesn't seem like he'd last a minute in a fight an' I suppose dat's why they got me. _The Scout felt a burst of pride at that thought, and he grinned to himself, playing with the bandages wrapped around his hands. _I'm gonna get outta dis shithole. I know ya'd be proud 'a me, Ma._

There were footsteps nearby, and the Scout's blue eyes flashed up to see the Spy slipping back towards him, struggling with a large iron mace and a giant cloth bag. The Spy wasted no time dropping the stuff at Scout's feet, and after a quick nod the Scout wasted no time in opening his 'presents'. Inside there was a full set of leather armor, along with a tunic that would go underneath. In mere minutes the Scout was fully outfitted, although there wasn't a helmet to go with the armor set. The Scout didn't mind. Next, he picked up the iron mace, testing its weight and balance in his hand, and trying a few swings, perfectly poised in a fighting stance. The mace would be used in his left hand, while in his right… The Scout grinned as his right hand began to glow a vibrant green-blue. It was one of the Alteration spells Hadvar had forced him to learn: Oakflesh. It would be useful for such light armor.

"Your travel pack is waiting in the wagon, Scout. Come now, I'm not wasting any more tim-"

" **A DRAGON'S ATTACKING THE KEEP!"**

The Spy stopped, frozen, and the Scout's head shot up as he heard the guards cry. Mere seconds after that, a strange, loud, unearthly roar echoed across the city.

"We need to move, now!" The Spy hissed, and all three of them dashed towards the gates.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: This one is a bit shorter, sorry!**

* * *

**Sniper**

It was simple enough to guard a wagon, really. In the stables outside Whiterun, the Sniper adjusted the akubra on his head, tilting the hat to provide his face with a little more shade from the sun's harsh rays. The wagon was fairly large, plenty of room to store his sheaves of arrows and his small knapsack. There was a locked chest, presumably full of coin, and a few other belonging that must belong to the other elves. And of course, in the corner the small, portable alchemy table and bottled potions, looking ominous in the shadows of the wagon. The Sniper fiddled with the silver ring on his hand, rubbing over the carving of the wolf's head absentmindedly. So much had gone on in the past few hours, his head was still reeling. He felt mixed between relief and a sense of dread. Hiring on with the Spy and the Medic had saved his sorry hide, along with saddling him with some coin and satisfying his wanderlust, but he wondered if it had been a bad idea.

* * *

It had started as a simple archery contest, hosted at Jorrvaskr, the home of the Companions. The prize was a hefty sum of gold, and with his pockets depleted, how could the Sniper say no? He had paid the 10 gold fees, and tried his luck with the longbow and recurve bow targets. Both times, he had hit the targets dead-on, much to the amazement of the crowd. Bets were placed, and finally it had ended up with him and one of the Companions, some sheila named Aela or something. She had been an impressive shot, but she hadn't trained as long as he had. She hadn't lived out in the wilderness all her life, depending on her bow for survival. The Sniper had, and he had won the contest, but by a close margin.

"Excellent bow work, elf. You'd make a fair Companion," Aela admitted right after Sniper's last shot nearly cleaved the target in two, and they shook hands. The Sniper grinned at her, unstringing his bow and slinging it over his shoulder as the Harbinger, the head leader or something of the Companions brought out the large sack of gold and dropped it into the Sniper's eager hands. It felt good, the weight of the gold, and he was sure to tuck it straightaway into his knapsack for safekeeping. Everything was going well, as everyone congratulated him, until one of the guards remarked that the Sniper smelled like wet dog. There had been an awkward pause, until one of the Companions broke in with a joke that had the crowd laughing, and Aela gripped the Sniper's shoulder and led him away. The Sniper had felt paralyze, felt his limbs freeze up with fear and anxiety.

"I know what you are, elf," She had hissed in his ear a few minutes later, once out of the crowds' earshot, "And I can help you, for a price."

Without another word, she had pressed a scroll into his hand, and walked away. He had heard her remark about a 'new member' to the old man, and the Sniper knew what that price would be. But he didn't want to join the Companions. He had heard of them before, with their chest banging and bragging on about honor. Aela may have known about his lycanthropy, but that didn't mean because she put a scroll into his hand meant the Sniper was supposed to join the honorable mercenaries. No, that wasn't professional.

The scroll, however, was a miracle. It was a detailed list of ingredients for an alchemist, with correlation to the timing of the moons and other such things. The title, however, explained all: "Wolf's Bane", some sort of mixture that would suppress the transformation for a limited time. With that scroll, and potion, the Sniper could roam across Skyrim to his heart's content without fear of his beastly nature destroying part of a city or someone's life. With the scroll, the Sniper could finally be _free._

Brewing the potion, however, would be another matter, but the Sniper would cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he had to get out of Whiterun. The answer had come in the form of the Spy and Medic. The dark elf had visited Jorrvaskr looking for guards, and once the Sniper advertised a little, and with the help of his gold prize, it was simple enough for the Spy to hire him and lay down the rules. The use name Sniper was fine with him, after all, and the Medic had agreed to make the potion (no questions asked) as a part of the deal. In return, he would earn his keep on the road with his archery talents, catching game and defending the wagon if the need arose. The two elves weren't forthcoming with where they were going, but the Sniper was sure it would work out just fine. He really had no place to go.

* * *

What was taking the elves so damn long anyway? They had mentioned recruiting another guard, but it had been about two hours now! The hold couldn't be that large, could it? Grumbling, the Sniper sat up, blinking in the bright sun. There were guards patrolling along the paved pathway to the city's gates, and nearby horses were munching placidly on grass. The plains were relatively quiet, except for the humming of hidden insects and the slight breeze ruffling the yellow grass. The Sniper could make out the form of a family of deer grazing, but he had no desire to move just now, drowsy from the sun's warmth…

"**A DRAGON'S ATTACKING THE KEEP!"**

"Bloody hell!" The Sniper yelped, sitting bolt upright at the guard's scream. He awkwardly scrambled for a moment, his hat covering his eyes as the wood elf reached for his bow. Fumbling with it for a moment, the Sniper oriented himself, reaching for his quiver of arrows. He quickly strapped on the quiver and fixed his hat, eyes searching for the threat.

He could see a large shadow moving quickly across the plain, too large to be any bird. The dragon's scales shone a dull copper in the strong sunlight, streaked with veins of white, green, and red. The scales rippled like living stone, impossible hard while the bat-like wings unfurled and pumped to keep the beast aloft. Pulling out of the dive, the dragon opened its mouth and belched out a shower of white-hot flame, scorching the plains below and setting the grass aflame. For a moment, the Sniper froze, staring up at the gigantic behemoth soaring overhead. _I thought dragons were only legends…_

The guards were screaming now, and calling for reinforcements, and the Sniper snapped out of his daze. The dragon roared again, and the Sniper felt a blast of wind as the thing soared overhead, circling around the keep. There were shouts everywhere of 'Dragon's attacking the keep! Defend the keep!' and a lot of people were running around haphazardly.

"Sniper!"

The Sniper didn't register someone calling his name (well, his use name, really) until the Spy repeated it a couple of times. The dark elf was there with the Medic in tow, along with another person. The Nord was young, cheeks still not graced with any kind of facial hair, and his light brown hair was cropped back. However, the kid moved with a graceful stance, and he definitely knew how to use the mace swinging at his hip. But this was not the time for introductions.

"Scout, help ze Sniper get ze horses into place. Medic! Make sure everything in ze back ees secured down!" The Spy called, and the kid, presumably called the Scout, sped over towards the horses. With an air of long practice, the Scout started to fit the horses into their respective places, checking and double-checking the leather harnesses. All of this, done with an almost unnatural speed. Kid was fast, the Sniper had to admit.

The Sniper tipped his hat towards the Scout and offered a crooked smile before unslinging the bow and nocking a single arrow. He clambered out of the driver's seat, allowing the Spy to grab the reins. He moved towards the open back of the wagon, stepping out of the Medic's way. Once the Scout joined him, the Sniper offered an awkward handshake. The Scout took it warily, and they shook hands.

"Are you two done making introductions like ze frauleins? Ve need to get out of here, now! Move! Schnell!" The voice of the Medic brought them back to the present, and the Sniper quickly sat down in the back of the wagon while the Scout turned to place his knapsack under the bench. The Medic's robes were fussed and rumpled, lightly covered with dust. Once the Altmer had placed all of their valuables in the wagon, he sat down promptly.

The Spy snapped the horses' reins, and the wagon surged forward onto the paved road. The dragon was pre-occupied with the guards of the keep; belching fire onto the crumbling stonewalls while the guards peppered the beast with arrows. The Sniper withheld on adding his own arrows; he might just piss the beast off and turn the dragon's ire onto their fragile, wooden wagon. No sir, the Sniper wasn't going to be fried a crisp today.

" Yo, guards ahead!" The Scout hollered, and the Sniper saw his light blue eyes were wide with fear. The Spy swore in a foreign language, accompanied by the Medic, but it was too late. The guards swarmed around the wagon, already hostile and angry. The guards had already taken a captive, some grubby, hooded figure bound hand and foot. If they didn't keep going, they were going to be detained and taken back to the keep, judging by how the guards were shouting at them to turn around. Fat chance. The Sniper's first arrow took down one of the guards, the arrow going clear through the man's head via the eye slit in his helmet. The Scout followed the Sniper's lead quickly, swinging his mace and smashing another guard in the face with it, whooping loudly. There were only five guards in the group, and it wasn't much of a challenge. The Medic had uncorked a flask, and with a grin he threw the contents over the guards. His grin faded, however, when the contents turned out to be oil.

"Fess!" The Medic cursed, "Someone moved around my flasks!"

However, the Sniper wasn't exactly concentrating on that. Once the guards were doused in oil, the robed prisoner moved. Flames, bright and crackling, burst from the prisoner's hands and ignited the oil on the guards. In moments, the guards were aflame, their screams echoing in the Sniper's ears. The robed figure murmured something the Sniper couldn't understand, and started whistling cheerily as the flames burned.

The guards died quickly after that, and the wagon remained at a stand still, the occupants unsure what to do. The Medic, however, broke the silence.

"I vant him on mein side!" he said cheerily, pointing to the robed figure.


End file.
